


What You Will

by havisham



Category: Twelfth Night - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M, Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:52:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If music be the food of love, Orsino is tone-deaf and Cesario, half-starved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Will

 

Cesario is roused from the deepest of sleep by a rough hand, shaking him awake. He wakes, confused and mussed.  And only slightly aroused. The dream is quickly dissipating, though he can remember enough of it to bring a blush to his smooth cheek.  He cannot quite remember whether he dreamt of the lady Olivia or the duke, Orsino.

Some things should not be examined too closely.

 He dresses quickly, and slides a sword into his scabbard and hangs it on his belt. The weight of it throws him off as he stumbles out the door.

 He is only half-awake to the muted sounds of the castle that never quite sleeps, for there are always things to be done. There are treasures to be guarded, fires to be banked, and fretful, insomniac dukes to be cossetted.

Cesario can barely muffle a yawn, as he looks to his visitor, the interloper, a surly fellow whose name Cesario can never remember.  He had been Orsino’s page before Cesario, years and years ago. The man  smiles unpleasantly, teeth bared. “The Duke wishes to see you, young Cesario, right away. I wonder what you have done to agitate him so.”

Cesario’s face is impassive. He does not allow the tremor of fear he feels to show on his face.

 But there’s a dark chuckle anyway, and the manservant opens the door to the duke’s chamber. “My lord,” he says softly, “Cesario has come.”

Cesario is kept waiting, and this allows him time to think. He knows that the duke is a fair man, usually, and good employer, also usually. If reports have come back to him that the lady Olivia, in the madness of her grief, fancied herself in love with Orsino’s own page...

Well, surely Cesario would at least have an opportunity to defend himself! And then he would certainly never see sunlight again.

“Good. Show him in and get out.” Orsino’s voice is clipped and Cesario is rocked by the other’s hasty retreat. Cesario rights himself, and taking a steadying breath. Then he comes in and bows deeply.

 

Orsino is still lying in his chaise, though the musicians have long departed. He motions Cesario to come closer.

“Why are you dressed like that?” he asks.

Cesario blinks.

“I was roused from bed, my lord, I thought there was some need for me...”

Perhaps buckling a sword to his side hadn’t been the best of ideas, especially when it was coupled with his (necessarily) loose-fitting sleeping clothes...

“What? An emergency? My best thanks, good Cesario, for your concern. But your services would not the be _first_ one I call upon if some calamity were to visit up Illyria.”

Orsino seems amused by the very thought.

Cesario bows again. He tries not to feel insulted. His swordsmanship had shown great improvement of late! His tutor had said so.

“I want to give you some advice as how you should conduct yourself with the lady.”

“My lord?”

“She has permitted you to visit her again, has she not?”

“Yes, my lord. Lady Oliva has been most kind to me. I hope that this means she grows more amenable to your suit.”

Cesario hopes that the duke cannot see that he started to sweat.

The room is very dimly lit, after all.

“I want you to show me, as well as you can, what exactly you said and did to Lady Olivia.”

“Ah.”

Cesario shuffles his feet, studies the carpet intently. It is from the far-flung Orient, surely. Exquisite, as one would expect...

Orsino’s voice is low, and brooks no dissent. “Shut the door.”

 

*

 

To his credit, Orsino soon grows wearily of hearing his own praises, parroted back to him.

He crowds Cesario, who is permitted to sit next to the duke on the chaise, given the lateness of the hour and how he is, in the duke’s words, about to fall over.  His breath, redolent of wine, gusts closely against Cesario’s face.

Cesario is never very comfortable being so near the duke.

He is afraid that one day the older man’s shifting green eyes will find that _one fatal clue_ and put it all together.

It is a vain fear.  Cesario knows that.

The duke only sees what he  wants to see. And now, with unfocused eyes, he does not see Cesario at all, not in any real sense of the word. He would not detect the unevenness of Cesario’s breathing, made by the tight bands of fabric across Cesario’s chest.  He does not see Cesario’s mouth part a little, his bottom lip jutting out, also just a little. He does not  feel Cesario’s heart hammering away, his blood rushing to his face, warm, flush, alive.

Orsino does not notice.

Instead, the duke mutters sadly, “I do not know why Olivia finds me so intolerable. It is as if she still had not forgiven me for the time I pushed her into that pond.”

Cesario keeps very still and tries not to breath too loudly.

“It was all her own brother’s doing, you know. Well, his daring. And I knew that she could swim. And it was years ago, we were children!”  

Orsino’s voice rises.  

He cries, “Why can she not love me?!”

Cesario wants to say: _NONSENSE!_  And, _LISTEN TO YOURSELF, YOU SILLY MAN!_

 But, of course, the duke would not hear of such things, and so Cesario remains quiet.

Here now, Orsino swings wildly about, and stares at Cesario, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

He is pained, _pained by the specter of love_ , or what he thinks is love, and it twists him into comic shapes. It makes an enemy of his handsome face, this almost clownish anguish.  Cesario cannot laugh; he is supposed to be the duke’s most ardent supporter. He prides himself on his loyalty, on his discretion.

Cesario gives  the duke a tentative pat on his shoulder. Faster than Cesario can imagine, the duke catches a hold of Cesario’s hand and peers at it.

Unnerved, Cesario asks softly, “What do you seek?”

Orsino makes a show of examining Cesario’s hand - which is finer than most, and smaller than many. A scholar’s hands, white and unmarked.

“She likes _you_ ,” says the duke, tightly,“Perhaps because you are not especially frightening. Quite the reserve, in fact.”

Cesario is mild. “If you like.”

“She never liked _me_ half so well, when I was your age.”

Cesario extracts his hand from Orsino’s now-loose grip.

“We will _make_ you her choice, my lord. Not her _only_ choice, but one that she picks —” Cesario’s mouth puckers in amusement and Orsino watches avidly, “Gladly and with joy.”

His words ring with sincerity. He believes it.  

 On impulse, he takes Orsino’s hand and kisses it.

 Orsino, kindly disposed to his page, gently pushes him off.

 

“Go to bed, Cesario.”

“Yes, my lord.”

 

*

 

Cesario closes the door, and breathes a sigh of relief.  He straightens his spine, and becomes Viola.

She is always Viola, of course. But now, she is always Cesario too.

 _She is all the daughters of her father’s house, aye, and all the sons too._

She is...

 _Viola is..._

Viola is a secret Cesario keeps, a shallow secret that shifts uneasily under his skin. It’s a fragile life he has built here, one that could be destroyed with a careless word, a clumsy gesture. From Orsino’s jealous grip, and Olivia’s hungry mouth, a second away from exposure and censure...

 It isn’t meant to last forever, this secret.  

One day, he knows, he will cease being Cesario and become Viola again.

Become _herself_ again.

But not before it is safe, and not before this … _business_ with the duke has been solved.

 Perhaps, Viola thinks wistfully, Duke Orsino will be _so_ grateful to her for his marriage, that he will forgive Cesario’s — _Viola’s_ deception and provide a place for her.

Then she would be able to detangle who Viola _is_ from who Cesario _had been_.

And so it is important that Olivia agrees to marry Orsino.

Cesario must make it happen. He shrinks back into himself, Viola tucked away again. Safe, for now.

He bites his lip.

If Cesario succeeds — _and he knows that he must_ — then Orsino would be happy.

It would be possible for Viola to exist again.


End file.
